


Darkling Extras and Deleted Scenes

by You_Light_The_Sky



Series: Darkling I Listen + Extras, Deleted Scenes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Read Darkling I Listen first, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please read "Darkling I Listen" first. This is just a collection of deleted scenes and potential extras.</p><p>Ch 1: Deleted Scene from Chapter 7 of "Darkling I Listen"<br/>Ch 2: Extra Scene: Post-Darkling, about Sherlock and John and wolves</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deleted Scene: Mind Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally for the mind palace sequence I was going to have John meet mini-Sherlock... and Moriarty's presence manifest in the form of spiders but yeah I scrapped that...

He’s burning at first, there’s no other explanation for it. It feels like his skin is being cooked from the inside and out, like his eyelids will peel up into crisp charcoal while his eyes smoulder into fine ash. All he knows is pain, pain, pain; all of it is agony that reaches into his bones and pulls them apart. John will do anything to make it stop; he would yell this to anyone who is listening but all he knows is how to scream.

There’s just so much, it goes beyond any word in the English language that John can think of. Not just the pain, but the _information_ suddenly leaking into him, flipping through his mind like several scattered rolls of film all chopped up and intersecting with each other as they record different images in his brain. He sees shadows of people jeering at him, calling him names like ‘freak’ and ‘beast’ and though he pretends not to be bothered, there is still an annoying ache in his chest. He wants it to go away, no longer to feel and so he buries himself in his studies of enchantments and poisons...

(And yet a part of him protests. John has never learned anything about the dark arts, about magic. He’s always been a healer with the same basic and uninformed opinion of the fog like everyone else, so how is it—)

He sees blood-drawn circles with pentagrams and Latin written inside, candles and chanting, those grey/blue/green eyes glowing in concentration and then whispered spells that match some of the whispers of the fog, accusing and loving all in one tone. The words slither and slide, intertwining themselves in the veils of John’s memory until he cannot pull them out. They are soft and sweet and fill him with the most incredible euphoria that he wants to experience always.

(The pain fades.)

There are lights, people bleeding through their ears, food turning into beetles, more and more curses being tested again and again for proper results. He keeps practising them, becoming addicted to the thrill and power of magic that channels through his body. It’s worth the stares, the glares. He doesn’t need anyone when the world is so very bright under his calculations and magical experiments.

What is the use of other human beings anyways when all they do is consume more air, consume more resources and suck at the earth like leeches? He’s glad that he’s not like them. He’s glad that he’s different. To be so blind to the plethora of information jumping out at you from every angle is so abhorrent that he would rather gouge out his eyes than be another idiot.

Like his father.

His father leaves when he finds him gouging out a pig’s heart and drawing circles on the wall ( _“I won’t stay married to a witch nor will I be seen as the sire of such spawn!”_ ) and while Mummy accepts it, Mycroft never forgives that man. If their father ends up dying while Mycroft is on a school trip, leaving the estate and all the wealth in Mummy’s control then he never mentions it. It’s better if it’s just them and Mummy anyways.

They don’t need humans.

His Mummy doesn’t approve. She never does when he tells her that he’d rather play with the bones of her grandmother than join the other children in the playground or whenever he hints that he prefers practising their _craft_ over the company of other humans. Her frown lines and wrinkles (about ten more since Daddy, that man, left) are always more prominent when she is scolding him. Somehow, even though her words are just words, they always hurt more than any child’s jeers against him.

Mycroft understands. Mycroft always does and he lets him study as he wishes, even encourages it ( _but not when he wants to use the spells to prove to the authorities who killed Carl Powers. Then, Mycroft is angry, forbids him from touching his books or the candles, shouts that his pride and arrogance will get them discovered and killed—_ )

Mummy touches his shoulder when he is in the middle of a delicate process (testing the flexibility of human skin versus snake skin if it’s bombarded with the same number of elemental curses.) He snarls at her, knowing that his eyes are at full glow, his true form fluctuating with the illusion as in the reflection of a faulty camera lens.

“We mustn’t make the mistake of isolating ourselves from other beings. Social interaction is necessary to increase one’s knowledge of the world, my dear, else we stagnate our minds in arrogance and sickness. We need them and they need us,” she says sternly. She is never without a frown now that their father has gone. It’s another thing that Mycroft and he hate that man for.

He scoffs, “ _We_ need _them?_ What for? They can survive on their own without us, for all I care. If they aren’t intelligent enough to grasp that we are running their governments and that we are their only defense against being swallowed completely by the dark, then they _deserve_ to go.”

Mummy tenses, her manicured fingers digging into his shoulder, “You would do well to remember that every being has its use, every being can offer you something in return if you are their ally. You never know when you’ll need to call on another’s favour.”

“We don’t have any allies,” he snorts because he’s neither stupid nor blind, he can see the truth even if Mummy is blind to it. “We may help them but when we need their aid, they turn their backs on us. It’s better if it’s just us three. They don’t understand us and they never will.”

Her eyes flash this time, a dark flicker of black lightning in her irises, “That’s not true, dear. We have power friends in high places that would come if I ever needed them.”

Annoyance bites at him, because she is not _listening_ (adults never listen to him, no one does, not to the freak of freaks who hears and sees more in the fog than any of their kind—) and she is still clinging pathetically to the memory of their human father, a man unworthy of her regard.

“If that’s true,” he snaps before he can help it (and he can never help what comes from his tongue,) “then why are you still alone, Mummy?”

The sting of pain against his cheek and Mummy’s furious gaze are the only facts that tell him what he doesn’t want to believe. She hit him. Mummy actually hit him. He doesn’t understand (what were the circumstances that mediated this response? Will they be replicated? Is this something random in the data or will he come to expect it in the future? A glitch? No, Mummy can’t be glitched, she would _never_ —and yet she _did_ and he, he feels—)

Several of his glass vials of well-collected salamander eyes and cigarette samples burst into tiny pieces, their contents spilling across the hardwood floors and seeping in between the cracks. The smell lingers, a foul stench that he will always detect when he is tinkering with more rituals and experiments. Some of the glass dust ends up slightly embedded in his cheek and hair (and maybe, he envisions later, some of the glass snuck into his blood and still circulates in his body still.)

Mummy is a vision of a parent and witch leader scorned, the glass doesn’t touch her, only hovers just inches from her skin, a barrier of shattered things that glimmers like stardust.

Her glare only falters for half a moment before it stays almost permanently on place. It’s a glare that he will be used to seeing for the rest of their lives (and always at him.)

“One day, my son,” she utters, her hair unfurling behind her like snakes angrily flicking their tails, “you will get your wish and you will hate it. Your obsessions will destroy you.”

She redirects her glower to what is left of his shelved experiments before she waves all of the mess, the destruction, away with one hand, as if it were never there (but he’ll always detect the smell.) Then with one final look, a pause as she regards his face and the bruise lingering there, she leaves the room.

(Mummy never visits his room anymore, all discussions are held in the dining room and he loses all appetite whenever he walks in that wretched place.)

He huddles against the wall, fingers shaking as he pours more chemicals and blood into different beakers. “I don’t need anyone,” he recites quietly to his empty room. “I’d rather be alone,” he repeats again, like a prayer, “alone is what protects me.”

And then the scene shifts, as if John is on the tube, watching the scenery pass until the next stop.

He’s elsewhere now, falling and yet not falling, suspended in midair, reaching for the light that shines mockingly above him. He tries to move upwards, but his arms and legs aren’t listening to him, heavy with the water surrounding him. The light is getting farther and farther away, he can’t hold in his air anymore so the water seeps in and his senses, he can’t _think..._

 _Drowning,_ he realizes, memories of little hands and jeering smiles, calling him a beast, as they push him into the river returning, _I’m drowning, I’m drowning—_

He sees their faces, each pudgy little child’s face, and the guise of innocence hiding the cruelty underneath. He wants to engrave these images in his mind and hopes that his spirit lingers after his death because he’ll make them sorry, he will. This is what happens when silly little humans don’t understand—

Then a hand grabs his and he is pulled up, up, air, air, so much air fills his lungs—

-

John lands against his face, feels the sting of the ground meeting his cheek and hisses when he is aware of himself again. The images and feelings that he experienced when he stepped into the orb still linger in his thoughts as he wonders— _what the hell was that?_

It hadn’t been him, those memories and thoughts. That wasn’t... John. Not then. He’d been, well he’d been someone else, a child (a witch) with this cold Mummy and a brother named Mycroft. Wait, that name. Mycroft. Sherlock mentioned a Mycroft, so had Anthea. So then this is, was, Sherlock’s...?

Shadows flicker around him and John jumps to his feet, trying to feel for his gun so that he can defend himself. “Who’s there?” John demands. Is this the orb then? Or some trick of Moriarty’s? As he looks around to survey his surroundings, he realizes that he’s surrounded by a cool darkness and silvery fog, only this fog has the same glow as the orb, the same ethereal light.

“Who. Are. You?”

John turns at the sound of another voice, a boy’s light alto but all he sees is the same navy black. There is just shadow and the eerie puffs of lightly glowing fog. Slowly it curls closer and closer around John until he can only make out a blanket of cloud, just below his shoulders, that stretches out onwards. He is reminded then, of his mother’s stories of the black of space, only without stars or the moon (and definitely no sign of a sun.)

He tenses, scanning the area around him. He’s not sure how many more of Moriarty’s games he can survive next or what he’s supposed to do ( _find Sherlock_.) John has a sick feeling as he wonders what a child could be doing wandering inside the orb (or wherever John is now) when it plays such tricks on one’s mind. But another part of him tells him to stay quiet, not to give away his position, because even the most innocent things could be hiding cruelty beneath.

Small footsteps echo around him, overlapping. Are there more children? Or just the boy? John can’t tell, his eyes flick back and forth—

“I said, w _ho are you?!_ ”

Suddenly John finds himself being slammed against a wall (and where did _that_ come from?) and then yanked down by the collar of his jumper so that he is face to face with a young boy, noses nearly touching. John can make out the dark colour of the boy’s curls and high cheekbones before he chokes when the boy pulls him down more harshly, this time, holding his neck, pushing John down against the floor so that all he can see is the boy’s face.

“ _What_ are you doing here?” the boy snarls at him, his expression animalistic and wild in a way that’s familiar to John, “Who gave you permission to be here? Are you another spider? _Who are you?_ ”

“I’m not—” John tries to say, while trying to move the child’s wrists from his neck, feeling nails pressing into skin, memories of close combat returning... “I’m looking. For. A friend. I’m not. A spider. I don’t. I don’t...”

Again he is slammed back against the ground and he feels the pain returning twentyfold to him. “I don’t believe you,” the child whispers, “why were you swimming in those memories? Hm? What did you hope to find out?”

John tries to look up, to establish eye contact, but sees nothing but an inky blackness, darker than the space around them, than the fog in Old London during Witching hour. And it’s... it’s _moving_ in waves and _slithering_ out of the boy’s eyes like little snakes crawling out of the boy’s skull. They stretch out, farther and farther, licking at the boy’s face and shoulders, hovering above John’s cheek.

John swallows and doesn’t look away from the black lines that flow from where the boy should have eyes. He should be recoiling in disgust, he should... should _react_ or something but... he wonders, instead, what would happen if those black lines brushed against his face. He wonders if this boy is another demon or a victim (or maybe both.)

He isn’t sure what the right way to react is anymore. Not since finding out that Sherlock is a witch. Not since he entered the dead zone. He’s seen so many glimpses of demons that he’s sure that he will go mad before he dies, what’s the harm of seeing another? Demon or not, the shadows whisper to him in the same tones as the fog, only louder now, crowds all whispering at once.

The boy tightens his grip and John feels more of his oxygen escape. It’s astounding just how strong this child is.

“A friend? There are only two witches here and none of them have any friends. If you’re the spider’s acquaintance, then you must be the enemy...”

Fingers dig in deeper and John shouts, chokes, “—No! Wait...! My friend. He’s here. Not. I... I’m John. Wat...son...!”

A sneer is all he receives as a response, “Nice try but that name won’t work on me,” and its then, seeing that disdain mirrored once more, that he recognizes the boy—

“Sh-Sherlock...?!” John gasps, seeing the same hair, the same cheekbones, the twist of his lips, his fingers. It’s him. It must be him. Only younger and with no black blindfold...instead only shadows eating at his eyes like the fog has eaten Old London.

The child sneers again (yes, definitely him), “So you do know me. What has the spider told you? Are you another trap, another little game to test my defenses?”

“I’m not—” he wants to protest, but John remembers that arguing with an amnesiac Sherlock Holmes does nothing, not when the man is high on his arrogance to listen to his own deductions or anyone else’s opinion. This Sherlock looks to be six or eight years old. He can’t tell.

He needs to think, ignore all irrelevant questions— _can this Sherlock even remember a man he hasn’t met yet?—_ to try and convince this Sherlock that John is an ally not a spider’s friend. What did John do the last two times? He argued the first time. The second time, Sherlock deduced something of their familiarity with each other because of the—

“Gloves,” John chokes out, holding up his hands, “I have... your gloves...!”

The effect is instantaneous. The child lets go and jumps away from John, as if burned, “You... that can’t be possible.”

Taking in as much air as he can, John shakes his head. “It is,” he says, though he’s not sure what hidden message he’s telling this Sherlock Holmes, “you gave them to me.”

“Impossible,” the chid spits again, “I would never... I don’t _have_ anyone that... I don’t have any _friends_!”

John knows that it’s anger and disbelief that’s speaking but he can’t help but feel hurt at little Sherlock’s declaration. “Now that’s a lie,” he manages to say with a rasp, “What would you call Molly and Lestrade? Or Mrs. Hudson? Why would Moriarty target them if they weren’t your friends? Why would they be Chosen if they didn’t mean something to you?”

The child doesn’t answer.

“See?” John says gently, “You have friends.”

 _And you have me;_ he thinks but does not say (because who is to say that Sherlock will even want someone like John around when the curse is gone?)

Little Sherlock looks down at him, the black trails flickering in and out, all hovering over John’s throat and face, all waiting.

“No one’s ever said that before,” the child says incredulously.

An ache pierces John’s chest and he swallows painfully. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” the child says quickly, “no, I just...”

A rattling noise echoes in the distance.

The child hisses out, all of the shadows seem to hiss with him. “They’re coming.”

-

_Is that a new friend that you have there, Sherlock? Why don’t we see how long he lasts before he break him?_

-

John is still for but a moment before he asks, “Who’s coming?”

Little Sherlock doesn’t answer. His lips are in a tight line and he’s rigid, as if he’s heard something that John can’t. (Does Sherlock hear the fog too?)

Instead, he grabs John’s arm and yanks him up, steadying John as he sways back and forth. The effects from the fire ( _oh god, 221B_ ) and that strange memory thing have taken their toll. John doesn’t even want to know what bruises are now on his neck.

“You need to get out of here,” little Sherlock orders, “run as fast as you can, to the center of my mind and no matter what, don’t look back. Don’t touch the webs. Don’t let the spider find you. If necessary, I give you permission to delve through any entrances you find, any memories necessary, to evade the spider’s attention.”

“Wh-what?!”

“Oh, do keep up, John. Where do you think we are? Put the pieces together. These are my memories. This is where the fog comes from. This place is my mind palace. Understand? Good. Because I won’t repeat myself. Now there will be a door, 221B, like my flat. Knock on it and say your name. Say what you must to convince me to let you inside. Only my true self can send you back.

John’s eyes widen, “So you’re...?”

Little Sherlock just gives a deprecating smile. “What do you think?” he asks before he frowns again, “Now leave and don’t come back.”

The rattling noises are louder, accompanied by scuttled movements (footsteps) of something with many legs. _A spider,_ John realizes, _several of them._ Something is invading Sherlock’s mind, threatening his memories, hunting them...

“No, I can’t!” John blurts out, remembering then why he is here and what’s at stake, “You have to come back with me, Sherlock. I know it’s what Moriarty wants but Sally, Soo Lin and the others, they’re in danger. He’s going to kill them—”

Little Sherlock scowls at him, “Didn’t you hear me? I’m not the original Sherlock. He won’t come back with you, John. You need to leave or you’ll go insane the longer you stay here. A witch’s mind is no place for a human’s. Now get. Out.”

“But—”

The child steps forward, shadows writhing from his footsteps and trailing from his eyelids and his lips, “GET. OUT!”

The ground beneath them shakes suddenly, like a hand has grabbed the foggy place and has begun to pound it with several giant hammers. The fog begins to dampen; its glow begins to flicker as the area around them starts to fall into complete darkness. Shapes scuttling faster towards them, begin to become clearer to see (silhouettes moving on silhouettes.)

Little Sherlock looks around wildly, shouting ‘no’ and casting shadows forward into the distance, at whatever is coming towards them.

“ _RUN_ , you fool!” he yowls, the black scattering to John as well, trying to push him away. Its touch is cold against his neck and face, as it brushes by the sliver of skin on his wrist that isn’t covered by the gloves—


	2. Extra: The Night is Howling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extra scene post-Darkling with Sherlock and John. Or that time John asked to see Sherlock transform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For deepforeststoryteller on tumblr who requested to a scene where John watches Sherlock transform into a wolf, outside, for the first time.

Instead of the bed, he wakes up with a great wolf curled around him on the floor, blankets and pillows cushioning him into the wolf’s embrace. The Fog starts to hiss that he wouldn’t have to be cold or uncomfortable if he joined it and John ignores it in favour of lifting his hands up and stroking Siraj’s— _no_ , Sherlock’s… he really needs to stop doing that—fur.

Soft. Safe. John chuckles when Sherlock huffs and licks at his fingers. In fact, when Sherlock opens his yellow eyes, he growls at seeing John’s bare hands. And John rolls his eyes. “Right. Gloves. Sorry, forgot.”

Not really. John just really likes to feel Sherlock’s fur against his hands. It makes him feel warm and cozy (not that he’ll ever admit it), like he’s being wrapped up in the essence of the sun. New London is still covered in grey skies while Old London might as well be renamed Sunny London or something.

John puts his head against Sherlock’s back and smiles against his fur. Nights like this, where he can just listen to Sherlock’s breaths, the rumbles in his voice, are the ones John loves best. No nightmares. No Fog. Just them.

He drifts back to sleep.

-

When he opens his eyes again, he feels Sherlock stroking his head. John blinks slowly, about to move, he realizes how tangled he is against Sherlock’s (very human) chest.

“Blast, I missed it again,” John scowls.

Sherlock’s lips twitch. “Some appointment I should be aware of?”

“No, it’s just I, um,” is this going to be rude? John _really_ hopes someone (maybe Anthea? Definitely not Mycroft. John still feels uncomfortable around him) explains witch culture to him later. Whatever, Sherlock won’t care, “I wanted to see you transform.”

Sherlock stiffens. “Oh.”

John frowns and moves a little so he can look at Sherlock properly. “Is that… bad?”

“No, no,” Sherlock says quickly. “It’s just… no one’s ever…” he coughs, “I hear the experience is quite grotesque.”

John can only guess what bastard told Sherlock that. _Humans are cruel to those who are different. We are better,_ the Fog insists. Honestly. Shut up.

“Well I’ve been to war and survived a Dead Zone. I can handle it.”

Sherlock only hums noncommittedly.

He fishes another pair of black gloves from his shirt (honestly, John’s starting to think that Sherlock just poofs them into existence by magic or peels them off of his skin… honestly hoping for the former option) and carefully puts them on John’s hands. The Fog mutes, if only by a few decibels and Sherlock kisses John’s palms again.

“If you insist.”

-

Breakfast and lunch that day are tense. Strangely awkward. John’s not sure what to do in this flat rebuilt to be like 221B. It feels lifeless. The walls are hollow and empty. Nothing creaks back or offers him another piece of toast. John hasn’t seen Mrs. Hudson in a few days. Usually she just smiles, friendlier than usual, and shoves mounts of Tupperware food at him.

“To keep your strength up,” she says, “we wouldn’t want you to fall over, dear, after you just recovered. Now if you excuse me, I have to chase away another _dog_ …”

John can’t help but shiver then. But Mrs. Hudson only pats him on the head lightly and carries on with her day. He’s surprised that’s Mrs. Hudson is so fond of Sherlock with her strange hatred for canines. She must be doing a good job of chasing off said-dogs, he hasn’t heard any barking around the neighbourhood since he moved in (save for Sherlock.)

Speaking of Sherlock…

He hasn’t moved from his position on the couch in ages.

Normally, he’d be playing violin or showing John some of his old experiments. Since John’s still on bedrest, Sherlock has refused to do cases but John knows the boredom must be driving Sherlock mad (hence the impromptu violin sessions before midnight.) John himself isn’t sure what to do when he recovers (as much as he can, what with a limp and being fog-touched). Will the clinic take him back? Does he even want to? Soo Lin’s already expressed frustration to him about the monotony of her old job.

What if he feels that too again? Like before the Dead Zone? What if Sherlock does? What if Sherlock gets bored of him or—

“Stop thinking. It’s too loud,” Sherlock sighs from the couch. “I told you. I _need_ you. You’re staying here and that’s final.”

Strangely enough, John’s shoulders relax.

“What about you?” John asks, waving in the air as if to pluck the tension out. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock scoffs. “I’m always okay.”

“Alright. I call bullshit. Come on, you can talk to me.”

Sherlock frowns.

John fiddles with his cane. “Is this… about my question this morning? Because, if you’re uncomfortable with it, I don’t have to watch. It’s fine—”

“ _No_. No. I… I want you to see. I merely… I’m merely remembering some… unpleasant memories.”

Now it’s John’s turn to frown. He puts down his cane and wobbles over to the couch.

“Scooch over. Come on.”

Sherlock sighs and puts his legs on John's lap.

“Now tell me something cool,” John grins. “What about that case you did with The Woman?” He reaches over to pat Sherlock’s leg.

“I’m not a wolf, right now, John.”

“Hmmm. But you still like it.”

Pause.

“The case with the Woman happened about four years ago…”

-

They stand outside, on one of the rooftops, just before midnight. John shivers and wraps his coat tighter around himself. Sherlock only scoffs and unwinds his own scarf, wrapping it tightly over John’s ears.

 _Come to join us, John?_ the Fog teases.

“Why are we outside?” John asks. The Fog is always louder outside. It goes mute when he sleeps next to Sherlock or when Mrs. Hudson watches him eat. But outside, it’s as loud as a bird screeching in his ear.

“I prefer it. If I cannot transform in 221B then I go out.”

 _Then we could have stayed inside,_ John doesn’t say. He suspects Sherlock wants the cover of darkness in case John reacts negatively (as if he ever could.)

Seconds tick on John’s watch. Two minutes to midnight.

“My mother used to cage me when I was younger.”

John jumps at this tidbit. “What?!”

Sherlock shrugs, “A precaution. When I was young, I didn’t have the best self-restraint. Used to eat her best sheets and claw up the curtains. Still, I prefer the fresh air. The moon.”

John stares up at the sky. He’ll never stop marveling at the billions of lights hovering above. He keeps expecting them to rain down, to rain the London in white fire while the moon watches. But still they stand up above. Watching.

“How could you see the moon when the skies were grey before?”

When Sherlock grins, the moonlight paints his teeth in eerie shine. “I’m a wolf, John. I could _feel it_.”

The blindfold slips away. John almost goes to pick it up but it vanishes. And Sherlock’s eyes, so black and empty, start to glow with the same familiar light that John remembers in Siraj.

Then starts the screaming.

No, it’s not loud. No sound comes. Just muted thrashing and screaming, like Sherlock’s been trapped into a glass bowl and John can only bang on the other side, unable to hear.

No glass bowl here. Only air. John rushes over to steady him.

But Sherlock thrashes more, his clothes blending into black and then growing. Bigger, wilder, furrier. The last thing John sees, while holding onto Sherlock, are sharp teeth trying to eat the moon.

He doesn’t let go.

-

In the morning, after curling up with Siraj-Sherlock at night, John watches Sherlock change back into a man. The same process as before.

He looks as sharply dressed as before but for the stiffness in his shoulders.

John still doesn’t let go of his hand.

“…Does it hurt?”

Sherlock almost splutters. “ _That’s_ what you ask?”

John taps his foot.

“Does it hurt when the Fog speaks to you?”

John doesn’t answer.

Instead, he curls up around Sherlock and whispers, “Thank you for showing me.”

Quietly, Sherlock brings his hands up in return.


End file.
